Date: Sun, 01 Mar 2009 23:14:23 +1000
From: mcooke0@postoffice.utas.edu.au
Subject: The Things You Fear The Most - Chapter Two
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the
property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are
the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the
owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright
infringement is intended.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
He was standing in the kitchen when I came in the next morning, his shirt
crisply pressed, the Windsor perfect in his tie. The clock had barely
passed seven and he was already dressed for work, the moron.
"So what do you have planned for the day, honey?" my stepmother asked,
batting her eyelashes at my father as she leaned across the counter. "I was
thinking."
"Sentencing," he muttered, not even looking up as he rifled through his
briefcase. "Busy day."
"I was thinking about visiting the new day spa next to Montgomery's," she
continued, unprompted. "Elisabeth Walters insists the mud baths are simply
divine!"
"Mmmhmm."
"And I was thinking I'd take the convertible out today," she mused,
removing the cap from her lip-gloss as she examined her reflection in the
toaster. "Elisabeth has been dying to see the new Porsche!"
"Sounds great, Jen," he told her, his body language tense, agitation
written in his stance.
My father had never been a morning person. Although I usually made a point
of avoiding him around the house, his thumping footsteps and slamming doors
were an easy-enough signal to read. Some people were a little slow to catch
on, though. Despite her amazing abilities with a push-up bra, Stepmother #2
had been doomed from the moment she'd waltzed into the kitchen and
proclaimed mornings to be 'the best time of day!!!'
The divorce had been settled four Thursday mornings later.
"And after the day spa, I was thinking I'd go swimsuit shopping for our
holiday," Stepmother #3 said, pursing her lips as she replaced the cap on
her lip-gloss.
"Uhuh," he said, still ignoring her.
"And did you ring the hotel about upgrading to the honeymoon suite?" she
asked, again leaning against the counter as her blonde hair fell around her
face. I'd largely ignored her up until that point, but the words 'honeymoon
suite' had most certainly grabbed my attention.
"What honeymoon suite?"
And now I'd grabbed his.
"Why aren't you dressed for school?" my father demanded, his head snapping
around as he cut her off.
"It's 7am," I said dryly, ignoring his glare as he cast a disapproving eye
over my sweat pants and t-shirt.
"I don't care; you should be getting ready for school."
"It's - Se - ven - A - M," I repeated, making full-eye contact as I reached
across the counter and grabbed a banana out of the fruit bowl.
"Don't get smart with me, William," he warned, snapping his briefcase shut
and locking it.
"Whatever," I muttered, peeling the banana as he continued to glare in my
direction. I returned his glare at least tenfold, barely taking time to
register that my stepmother had left the room.
At least now it was one-on-one.
"Did you do your homework like I told you to?" he asked.
No.
"Of course."
"And where is it?"
In the rubbish bin.
"Upstairs."
"Don't lie to me, William."
"I'm not lying," I told him, folding my arms across my chest.
"I know you're lying," he accused, not moving from where he stood. "Would
you like me to go up to your bedroom and prove it?"
"The door's locked," I informed him, taking a firm hold of the counter that
separated us.
"Excuse me?"
"That's right," I told him, dangling the key as he took a white-knuckled
grip on the dining chair in front of him. "I put a lock on my door after
your little stunt last week."
"HOW DARE YOU!?!?" he roared, banging the chair fiercely against the tiles
below. "You have NO RIGHT to put a lock on that door."
"Well maybe now you'll stay out of my stuff."
"You had NO RIGHT," he repeated, now moving toward me.
"And YOU have NO RIGHT to go through my stuff," I told him, as he moved
toward me with increased speed. Things were quickly getting out of control,
I wasn't stupid. The simmering tension in the air was reaching boiling
point, and my fight-or-flight instincts were well and truly on alert as I
began to back away toward the door.
Fight.
"As long as you are under my roof, you will live by my rules, is that
clear?"
.or flight.
Fight.
"Do I make myself clear?"
.or flight.
"DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?"
Fight.
"WILLIAM?"
.or flight.
"GET BACK HERE, WILLIAM!"
Flight.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
7:35am.
The alarm clock glowed in the dull morning light, telling me exactly what I
wanted to hear as the front door slammed downstairs. It was the same time
he left every weekday morning, and every other Saturday morning, too. But
don't for a second think I was waiting, as I stood next to the window and
watched him drive away.
Letting go of the breath I wasn't holding, I turned my back and reached for
the remote, increasing the volume on my stereo as I yanked the curtains
closed behind me. Listening to the sounds of Taking Back Sunday as they
filtered through the speakers, I pulled the dirty t-shirt over my head,
preparing for the day ahead as I began to navigate my way across the floor,
searching through the mess for a clean school shirt. Coming up
empty-handed, I briefly considered donning yesterday's school shirt, before
realizing yesterday's dirt marks had probably failed to vanish overnight.
Taking a deep breath and unlocking the bedroom door, I stepped quickly out
into the hallway, making a beeline for the laundry as I went searching for
a crisp, clean white shirt. Finding one folded on top of the dryer, I began
to move quietly back toward the stairs, pausing only briefly as my
stepmother came in from the back deck.
"Oh, good morning, Will," she said cheerily, glancing at the shirt in my
hand with a welcoming smile. Ignoring the attempted olive branch, I simply
grunted in response, searching for clean socks as she closed the back door
behind her.
"Would you be able to turn your music down for me just a bit?" she
continued, the smile losing just a little of its polish. "Please?"
"No," I said simply, ignoring her still as the search for socks
continued. After finding a matching pair on the third attempt, I turned
around and faced her.
"Please, Will?" she asked again, her smile now wavering. She looked just a
little uncertain standing there in the doorway, as if she had no clue of
what to do in this situation.
"Let me think about that for a minute." I began, watching as a hopeful
expression began to blossom on her face. On another day, at another time, I
might have even felt sorry for her. But as I watched her play nervously
with her necklace, I decided I just wasn't in the mood. "NO."
Anything else she had to say was abruptly cut off as I shut the laundry
door in her face. She might have even called after me as I took the stairs
two at a time, but that was also cut off when I slammed and locked my
bedroom door behind me.
Ignoring her pleading voice, I grabbed a clean pair of pants off the hanger
in my closet and set about preparing myself for the day. Discarding my
sweat pants and toweling the last remnants of water out of my shower-damp
hair, I began assembling my school uniform in the mirror, finishing with a
Windsor knot in my school's red and blue-striped tie. Then, after securing
my belt and making sure everything was in order, I began to methodically
dismantle the entire ensemble, yanking out my shirt tail and loosening my
tie before making sure my hair walked the fine line between 'perfectly
messed' and just plain messy.
Finally, when I was satisfied with my look for the day, I swiped the car
keys off my nightstand and grabbed my backpack off the floor, pausing
briefly as I considered turning off the stereo. After a moment's
hesitation, I turned the volume up to max, leaving it on to annoy my
stepmother for at least another 20 minutes until the CD finished. Covering
my ears against the onslaught, I pulled open the bedroom door, closing it
quickly behind as I turned the key in the lock and secured all the secrets
contained within.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
'Just start at the beginning,' the Detective had told him, watching as Will
had stumbled over words in an attempt to find a starting point. 'Start at
the beginning and tell me everything you know.'
And now, a little over half an hour later, Mike was sure he wasn't any
closer to a result. Glancing at the clock situated on his wall, the
Detective could see it was past half-past eight, and he was very much
overdue for dinner.
"So why did you decide to put a lock on the door?" the Detective asked,
leaning forward slightly as he again reached for his coffee. Although the
warm liquid did nothing to fill his stomach, he could see that Will was
beginning to open up, and he hoped this progress would somehow result in
food.
"I bought the lock to stop him going through my stuff," Will explained,
fire igniting behind his eyes. "He claimed he was looking for a bottle of
Scotch that was missing, but I think he was just doing it to be a twat."
"And did you take the Scotch?" the Detective asked, smiling at memories of
his own mis-spent youth, before remembering the position he currently
held. "It's ok; you won't get into trouble for it."
"Um, yeah, I took it," Will admitted, his cheeks beginning to flush in
embarrassment. "But I wasn't stupid enough to keep it in my bedroom."
The Detective set down his coffee again, as he laughed in spite of himself.
"So what did he actually find, then?"
"Um, I'd rather not say," Will declined, his quiet voice faltering again.
"Nothing you say has to leave this room," the Detective tried to reassure
him, watching the kid pick at a thread in his jeans. "For the moment, this
is off-the-record."
"Ok," Will responded, still not seeming 100% convinced. "He stormed in and
he found a porno."
"You're kidding me?" the Detective said, his laughter now returning
full-force. "That's nothing to be ashamed of, kid."
"Um, well." Will began, still unable to make eye contact. "It probably
wasn't the kind you're thinking of."
"Oh." The laughter stopped.
"Yeah," Will continued. "That was pretty much his reaction, too, for the
first few seconds. Then he dragged me out of bed and started beating the
shit out of me."
"Were you hurt?"
"I couldn't go to school for two days," Will admitted, his hand
unconsciously tracing his ribcage. "But he didn't put me in hospital or
anything."
"Did you report him?" the Detective asked, regretting the abruptness of his
reaction.
"There wasn't any point," Will said, his other hand still picking at his
jeans. "My dad's a defense attorney in the city; he'd make it go away, no
matter how bad the evidence was."
"It's not too late to report it," the Detective said, pointedly.
"As I said, there's no point," Will repeated, finally looking up. "It won't
do any good now, anyway."
"Ok," the Detective said quietly, feeling like Will was about to clam up on
him again. "Tell me what happened next, then."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Fashionably late was a term I'd learnt in seventh grade.
When phoning to discuss my less-than-perfect attendance record in his
homeroom, disciplinarian Mr. Avram had asked my mum if my constant lateness
was an attempt to 'appear stylish' in front of my fellow classmates. She'd
laughed and told him 'fashionably late' was the term he was looking for,
rolling her eyes when he'd subsequently lectured her on punctuality and
good parenting. Eventually hanging up and shaking her head, she'd ruffled
my hair and told me she'd be driving me to school from now on. No ifs, no
buts. But, despite the game of twenty questions that followed, she never
actually asked the real reason I was late every morning.
"So what happened to 'fashionably late', douche bag?"
And I never told her I was watching SpongeBob.
"Well, did SpongeBob finish early or something?" my friend Scott asked in
sarcastic tone, sidling up beside me as I arrived at my locker. Although at
least three inches taller and 15kg heavier, he'd somehow mastered the art
of stealth in our eleven years of friendship.
"Har-har, very funny," I said, giving him the finger by way of
greeting. "Don't tell me, you skipped the last half of Dora, too?"
"Skipped all of Dora this morning," he said, shaking his head somberly as
he settled against the locker beside me. "I hope she can forgive me."
"I dunno, dude, she might set that monkey onto you," I warned, entering the
combination as I pulled open the door in front of me. "I've heard it has
herpes."
"Herpes? Wouldn't be the first time," he said, laughing.
"Dave's mum doesn't count."
"I'm gonna tell her you said that," he laughed, letting his backpack fall
to the ground in front of him. "Where is the unco prick, anyway?"
"Who, Dave?"
"Yeah."
"Dunno," I said, dumping my gym clothes in my locker. "Haven't seen him
yet. Why?"
"He still has my copy of Grand Theft Auto," Scott said, standing up on his
tiptoes as he scanned the crowd for our missing friend. "I'm gonna go find
him before home room."
"Fair enough," I said, pulling out a couple of textbooks and closing my
locker. "I've got a hot date, anyway."
"McMahon?"
"You know it."
"Ah well, you have fun with that," he said, scooping his backpack off the
ground as he went off in search of Dave.
"Always."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
You'd have thought that as a lawyer's son, the words 'truth' and 'justice'
would hold some sort of relevance as I went about my everyday
decision-making. I mean, the lawyer's son should be raised on Batman comics
and his hero should be George Washington, right?
Right?
Wrong.
Standing inside the Principal's Office at two minutes after 9am, all I
could think of was the guy who said most people will tell three lies in the
average ten-minute conversation. Now there's a true hero. Thanks to his
research and genius, we can now be allowed three blatant mistruths every
ten minutes and simply write it off as 'following the crowd'. That means if
I worked in a call centre later in life, I'd be able to justify one hundred
and forty-four lies in an eight-hour shift, and nobody would be any the
wiser. Now there's a skill you can put on your resume.
"And how are you on this fine Tuesday morning, Will?" Principal McMahon
asked, smiling at me from behind her heavy Blackwood desk.
"I'm good, thank you, Miss McMahon," I replied, in my best cheerful voice.
You can consider that lie #1.
"That's good to hear, Will. Would you like to take a seat?"
"Yes, please."
That's lie #2, and not even ten seconds into the conversation. Damn.
"Ok, Will," she began, watching as I sat down in her still-uncomfortable
guest chair. "I'm not going to keep you long this morning. I've just called
you in to discuss the new arrangements for you and your third period
English class."
"Sounds wonderful," I told her, offering a smile.
Ah fuck, that's lie #3.
"At this stage it's only a trial, but Mrs. O'Keefe has agreed to take you
into her English Literature class."
"O'Keefe?" I'd never heard of her.
"Yes, she teaches the advanced course in Room 508."
And that's probably why.
"You're putting me in an ADVANCED class?" I asked, incredulous.
"Yes, Will," she said, with what could only be described as a
don't-make-me-look-stupid-for-doing-this look. "I think a large part of
your misbehaviour can be put down to boredom in your classes."
Well no shit, Sherlock.
"So when does this all start?" I asked, sitting up straight and paying
attention.
And over the next nine minutes, she explained her plan. I won't bore you
with the details, but for the record, I only told two more lies before
walking out of the office at 9:16am. In my defense, though, this wasn't
exactly the average conversation.
And I'm not most people.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"So what did she say?" Scott asked, an hour and a half later when we were
done with first period.
"That you're a fucktard," I replied, barely missing a beat.
He laughed. "Anything else?"
"No no, just that you're a tard."
"Oh."
"Yeah," I said, watching Scott pretend to take offence. "But when we were
done with that, she might have mentioned something about putting me in
advanced English."
"What? Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"And you're sure she didn't say 'remedial'?"
I laughed. "Like you can even spell 'remedial'."
"I dunno," he said, appearing to give the question serious thought. "Could
you use it in a sentence, please?"
"Haha, fuck off you tool," I said, watching him do his best retarded
impersonation. "What else is news, anyway?"
"My cat's name's 'Mittens'," he informed me, continuing with his retarded
'impersonation'.
"Shut up!" I said, laughing again as I smacked him behind the ear. "You do
'retard' a little too well, if you ask me."
"I learnt from the best," he retorted, accompanied by a not-so-subtle
gesture in my direction.
"I'll bet," I told him, shaking my head as I stretched out on the staircase
we'd somehow ended up on. "So what's the go for this weekend?"
"Dunno," he said, watching as I stretched out my forearms, pausing to give
him the finger in the process. "But I was thinking."
He slowly trailed off, his gaze locking on something in the distance. Or
actually, someone, to be specific. Watching as his dark eyes glazed over, I
turned and followed their trajectory until I came to rest on the figure not
forty feet from where we sat.
It wasn't hard to pick him out of the crowd, despite his best efforts to
disappear into it. The bangs were a bit longer and the shoulders a bit
broader, but there was no mistaking that nervous smile as he walked toward
us down the hall.
It was the smile he'd worn on our first camping trip, before we'd ran back
home out of fear. The smile he'd worn when we caught our first fish, and
the day he'd finally beaten me at Scrabble. It was the smile he always wore
when I was around, because he always smiled when he was happy. And now I'd
made it go away. The eyes that had once lit up at my very presence, were
now hidden and wary behind his dirty blond hair.
"Justin Riley," Scott silently mouthed, the voiceless answer to an unasked
question. "What the fuck is he doing back here?"
But even if I'd had a voice at that moment, it was a question I couldn't
answer. Seeing him there had reopened old wounds, wounds that felt as fresh
as the moment they'd been inflicted. Wounds that were best left forgotten.
"Hey, Justin!" Scott called out, breaking the tension as he waved to grab
his attention. "Riley, over here!"
But rather than prompt Justin to move toward us, Scott's invitation had
made him to do the exact opposite, stepping in front of a dozen students
and making a hasty exit out through the side door.
"What was that all about?" Scott asked, turning to me in expectation.
I had no clue what to tell him.
"What the fuck's wrong with you?" Scott asked, continuing to watch my
reaction.
"Nothing," I said, turning away from him and standing up. "I'm going to
class."
"Dude, we have like, five minutes," he said, looking at me incredulously.
"So, I'll be early."
"You haven't been early to geography in the whole time we've been here."
"First time for everything," I shrugged, moving forward suddenly and
grabbing my bag.
"Whatever," he said, deciding to let me go. "See you at lunch, then?"
"Yeah, whatever," I called behind me, leaving him to wonder what the hell
had just happened.
And no, I'm not going to talk about it, either.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"So this Justin kid, was he your boyfriend?" Detective Holden questioned,
processing everything Will had just told him about their relationship.
Despite the stop-start nature of their conversation, he was beginning to
feel comfortable enough to ask such a question.
"How do you mean?" Will quietly responded; a stalling tactic, as much as
anything else.
"Well, the question seemed pretty self-explanatory," the Detective
responded, uncharacteristically frustrated with the constant game of two
steps forward, two steps back. "Were you somehow involved with this kid?"
"He was my best friend in the world," Will finally said, displeased at
being forced to admit the truth. But despite the frank admission, the
Detective didn't press the issue further.
The word 'was' had told him everything he needed to know.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Author's Note: Good lord, so many emails! Thank you to each and every
person who has taken the time to read and respond to my story; I really
can't overstate how much that means to me. Hopefully, by the time you're
reading this, I'll have responded to each and every one of you. Anyway,
just to reiterate, I can't see sex playing much of a role in this story.
There are thousands of wonderful authors on Nifty who can bring sex to life
in the most incredible of ways, but I really don't think that I'm one of
them. So, if sex is exclusively what you're looking for, I encourage you to
click on one of their links and send them a nice, encouraging email
afterwards. Hopefully you'll make their day in the same way that Nifty
readers have made mine. But the fact remains, sex just isn't my thing. Well
actually, it is, but...
A wise author once said 'write what you know' and, well... this is what I
know. It's not particularly sexy, but I'm trying to do it justice all the
same. If it's not to your taste, just hit the 'back' button on your browser
and pretend this never happened. If it IS to your taste, you have mighty
fine taste indeed haha. All comments are welcome, so feel free to email me
at mcooke0@utas.edu.au, or add me to MSN at
tiger_fan_tiger_man@hotmail.com. Otherwise, keep an eye out for chapter
three!